


i won't fall unless you ask me to

by tamquams



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Banter, Canon Compliant, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Ronan Compliant Language, adam parrish pov, author and adam both have unresolved issues with gansey but we are trying, st. agnes sleepovers, takes place between BLLB and TRK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29651904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamquams/pseuds/tamquams
Summary: So sure, Ronan is everything that Adam hates in the world. But he’s also everything that Adam doesn’t hate. He’s just everything, period.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 16
Kudos: 101





	i won't fall unless you ask me to

**Author's Note:**

> howdy there, friends!! so, a few things before we begin:
> 
> 1\. in case you got an email saying "tamquams posted a new work" and you are now left wondering what the hell is a tamquams, hey hi hello!! this is the person formerly known as @chuckbass, writer of swiftie ronan lynch content, known for naming most of my works after taylor swift and bastille lyrics!! i changed my username, but my content will remain the same ♡ i've been meaning to change my username for a while, and i finally figured it out, so here we are!! hope that clears up any confusion you may have had ♡
> 
> 2\. one joke in this fic is stolen from a tumblr post that i saw like a year ago and can no longer find, and another joke is stolen from one of the worst movies i've ever seen, G.B.F. 
> 
> 3\. this work references canon child abuse, canon death, and contains canon-typical language.
> 
> 4\. a solid 11 months ago, someone messaged me on tumblr asking me to write a songfic for phoebe bridgers' steamroller. i said i would, promptly forgot about it, and then opened this google doc and wrote this entire thing in about 4 hours. i wouldn't say this is a songfic, necessarily, but this is certainly the closest i will probably come to writing the promised steamroller fic (fantastic pynch song, just by the way). i created a new tumblr account since receiving this message so i don't remember who requested it, but if it was you, i'm so sorry this took me an eternity and i love you lots ♡
> 
> 5\. i hope you're all doing well and staying safe, and i hope you enjoy!!!

Adam’s apartment door is open an inch when he arrives home from work.

At the top of the stairs, he freezes, eyes narrowing at the strip of light that spills through the crack in the door onto the dusty hallway carpeting. He blinks a few times, trying to remember if there was another car in the lot when he pulled in, if there was a light on in the office downstairs, but he comes up with nothing. It’s been such a long, arduous day that all he’s really registered in the last several hours is his chronic pain and fatigue, even the pang of hunger in his stomach mostly drowned out by the ache in his back and the heaviness of his eyelids. _Stupid_ , he thinks to himself, shifting his weight from one sore foot to the other. There are no excuses for letting his guard down; he knows better, he knows that he has to pay more attention than most other people just to survive. The last time that he wasn’t careful —

He doesn’t go there. Instead, he considers his options.

One: he can creep back downstairs and knock on the office door. If someone is around, he can ask if they left his door ajar; if the office is empty, he can use the phone to call Gansey or Blue or, God forbid, Ronan.

Two: he can creep back downstairs and get in his car and drive to Monmouth or Fox Way for the night. Wait till morning to investigate.

Three: he can walk into his apartment and deal with the intruder, should they still be there, his own damn self.

Making an educated choice on the matter requires more information than he has, though. For instance, the identity of the intruder. Who would even have a reason to break into Adam Parrish’s tiny, mostly-unfurnished apartment? Not a burglar, that’s for sure. He figures that if someone were to break in to rob him, he would probably return home to find them standing in the middle of his apartment, gazing around piteously as if to say _damn, you live like this?_ More likely, it’s Robert Parrish, here to harass Adam some more or demand some money or just generally tell him what a garbage person he is. Or it could be Colin Greenmantle, unintimidated by Adam and Ronan’s attempts to blackmail him straight out of Henrietta, set on exacting his revenge on one horror movie twin at a time. Or maybe it’s someone else, someone they’ve yet to meet, because their lives are just crazy enough right now for some new supervillain to be introduced via home invasion of Adam’s cheap-ass church attic apartment. That would really check out, honestly.

Odds are, the smartest decision Adam could make would be at least to go downstairs and check out the parking lot, place a call to Gansey for backup, but, well. The _time_ that would take up. The _energy_. It’s nearly two in the morning and Adam has been up since before dawn, going from work to school to work to more work, and what if he wakes Gansey and it turns out to be a false alarm? Gansey wouldn’t mind, of course, in fact he would probably be delighted for Adam to reach out in an emergency, but Adam can’t stand the idea of robbing Gansey of what little sleep he might actually be getting. So.

So, Adam just squares his shoulders and steps into his apartment silently, avoiding the creaky floorboard just before the threshold and lifting the door slightly so the hinges don’t squeak.

The overhead light is off inside the apartment, but the two-dollar garage sale lamp by the door is on, emitting the warm amber glow of a lightbulb Ronan plucked from a dream. The room is empty, and at first glance, nothing seems to be out of place; the blanket on his mattress is still rumpled from when he rolled out of bed this morning, his backpack is still hanging on the back of his desk chair from when he stopped by immediately after school to change into his work clothes. The only thing that stands out is an empty space in his bookshelf; he moves closer, then frowns at the gap between Dante’s _Inferno_ and _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. Who would break into his apartment just to take a copy of Ovid’s _Heroides_?

The answer is on the tip of his tongue, but in the heartbeat before he understands, the bathroom door opens behind him and he whirls around, hands raised defensively.

“Jesus Mary mother of _fucking_ Christ,” Ronan Lynch gasps, falling sideways against the doorframe. “Give a guy a little warning next time, you creepy fucking bastard.” He smacks a hand against his heaving chest, mouth turned downward in a rather hostile scowl, and Adam is almost stunned into silence by the absurdity of being bitched out for _entering his own home_.

Almost.

His own breath coming in heavy pants, Adam glares daggers across the room. “Yeah, no,” he snaps, steadying himself with two palms placed firmly on the end table behind him. It’s a decent table, picked up off the side of the road as a housewarming gift from Ronan himself, and it holds a lovely prickly pear cactus that Adam dug up while doing some leyline maintenance only a few weeks ago. He makes a conscious effort not to lean too close to it; he really doesn’t want to spend the night arguing with Ronan _and_ pulling cactus spines out of his back. “No,” he repeats, “I’m not going to warn _the guy that broke into my apartment_ when I come home.”

Ronan rolls his eyes, pushing up off the door jamb. He’s not wearing his jacket or boots; now, Adam can see where they’ve been discarded on the other side of the bed, hidden from view of the doorway. And the book, _Heroides_ , is pressed spine-up beside his pillow, still open to the page Ronan was reading before getting up to use the bathroom. Adam cranes his neck to peer out the window, and yup, in the ghostly light of one flickering street lamp, he can just make out the BMW parked across three spaces on the far end of the lot, right where Ronan always leaves it. All the signs were there, Adam just hadn’t been present enough to put them together.

“So dramatic,” Ronan is grumbling when Adam turns back to him. He flops down on the thin mattress and sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “Your lock is shit, dude. I barely touched the door before it swung in on itself.”

Adam huffs and kicks the aforementioned door shut finally, locking it even though it is apparently useless at keeping anyone out. “That’s still breaking in,” he says, kicking off one workboot. It lands nearby with a solid _ka-thunk_ , and the second boot quickly follows, tipping the first one over on its side.

“You break into Monmouth all the time,” Ronan points out. He looks Adam up and down once, lightning-fast, then deliberately turns his head as Adam removes his work shirt. “Do unto others as they’ve done unto you, or whatever.”

“Hm,” Adam hums. He tosses his soiled shirt into the half-full basket beside his desk and then slides his belt off in one precise motion, cataloguing the way that Ronan continues to look away, the way the tips of his ears flush bright pink. “Don’t think that’s quite how it goes.”

“What do you know,” Ronan shoots back immediately, and he even goes so far as to close his eyes as Adam steps out of his blue jeans and crosses the room to rifle through the top drawer of his dresser. “You’ve never read a page of the Bible in your life, you heathen.”

Adam toes the bathroom door open and reaches into the shower stall to turn the water on. “But I do live above a church,” he reasons, leaving the bathroom door open just a smidge, mostly to be ironic, but somewhat so he can continue this conversation as he showers. “And I passed World Religion with an A-plus.” He steps under the spray and lets the cold water rinse away the topmost layer of grime coating his skin. “And I hang out with you.”

Over the sound of running water, he can’t be sure, but he thinks Ronan probably _tsk_ s dismissively. “Not the same,” Ronan says. “Hanging out with me won’t get you into heaven.”

“No shit,” Adam snorts. He lathers his hair with shampoo labeled _everlasting sunshine_ , from when Ronan went shopping with him and was asked to grab “just any scent” from the cheap shelf. He could have rolled his eyes and pushed past Ronan and grabbed something different, but the arch of Ronan’s eyebrow when presenting his find was too challenging, his smirk too smug. So, for the next month or so, he’s washing his hair with bright yellow _everlasting sunshine_ shampoo. It actually smells pretty nice, not that he’ll admit it to Ronan. Maybe he’ll get it again.

“I have no idea what you’re insinuating,” Ronan says from the other room, indignant. If Adam closes his eyes, he can picture the slope of Ronan’s brow as he pouts at the bathroom door. “I’m a saint. A regular frickin’ Virgin Mary.” 

Adam’s eyes burn as a bit of soap drips into them, and he curses under his breath before replying, “More like Judas.”

Ronan scoffs. “Judas was a disciple, not a saint, Mr. _I passed World Religion with an A-plus._ ” 

Adam knows this, of course, knows far more about Catholicism than he has ever needed or wanted to know, but just to be a shithead, he says, “Same thing, really,” as he rinses the shampoo from his hair and quickly massages a dollop of conditioner into his hair. The adrenaline rush he got upon being surprised by Ronan woke him up mentally, but physically, he’s on the verge of collapse if he doesn’t lay down soon. He rinses the conditioner from his hair almost as soon as it’s in, then reaches for his body wash.

As predicted, Ronan groans loud and long from the other room. “I can’t wait to see your ass burning in Hell, Parrish,” he calls out, and Adam thinks he’s probably stretched his legs out on the bed by now. Maybe he’s leaning back on his elbows. Miles of lean, boxing-defined muscle and pale skin sprawled across the mattress —

Adam dunks his face under the faucet, the spray of water now ice-cold and sobering. _Nope, not going there, not tonight_.

This — this — this _attraction_ to Ronan isn’t new. It isn’t surprising. It’s been there for a while, simmering beneath the surface, lurking behind every sarcastic comment and death glare and their stupid, childish rivalry. It’s driven Adam to do the most inane things, like pretending he didn’t know how to drive a stick-shift and suggesting that Ronan teach him. Like inventing a series of terrible, gruesome crimes simply because Ronan asked for help. Like not insisting that Ronan go the fuck home tonight so that Adam can get some _sleep_ , god damn it.

No, it isn’t surprising. It’s confusing is what it is, not because Ronan is a boy, but because Ronan is a Ronan. He’s everything that Adam hates in the world, all rolled up into one insufferably attractive person. He’s spoiled and entitled, contradictory and needlessly aggressive. He has the time and money to do anything he wants, and what does he do with it? He races his impossible, unbeatable car down the side streets of Henrietta and he drinks himself into oblivion and he exchanges blows with his older brother in the Nino’s parking lot. He has every chance, every advantage that Adam would kill to have, and he — squanders it.

But he also lifts field mice to his face and carries baby birds around in his backpack. He not-so-subtly leaves hand lotion in Adam’s car, dreams up obnoxious mixtapes just on the off-chance that Adam ever turns his car radio on. He brushes his mother’s hair from her face with gentle hands and smiles at her in a way that hurts to look at. He offers himself up as a shield and a weapon when danger approaches a person that he cares about. He could pull anything, _anything_ from his dreams, and he chooses to create things that will help people or make the world a better, more beautiful place. He orders Adam into shopping carts and risks both their lives just to make Adam laugh. He loves with his whole, entire heart, a love so fierce and all-encompassing that just thinking about it makes Adam want to cry.

So sure, Ronan is everything that Adam hates in the world. But he’s also everything that Adam doesn’t hate. He’s just everything, period.

As Adam abruptly shuts the water off and reaches past the shower door blindly for his towel, he realizes that he’s been quiet for a few beats too long. He rewinds their conversation in his head and replays Ronan’s _I can’t wait to see your ass burning in Hell, Parrish,_ then exhales through his nose. “If you see me burning in Hell, doesn’t that mean that you’re in Hell, too?”

There’s a drawn-out pause as Ronan considers this. Adam takes advantage of the lull in conversation to brush his teeth, staring down his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. He’s contemptuously eying a cluster of freckles on his cheekbone when Ronan finally says, “People in Heaven get periodical field trips to Hell just to gloat at all those sinning motherfuckers. Obviously.”

Adam lets himself laugh, just once, before emerging from the bathroom with a towel knotted at his hips. Just as he imagined, Ronan is taking up the entire bed, sock feet hanging off the end of the mattress, and he closes his eyes again as Adam pulls on a pair of threadbare pajama pants and a heather-gray shirt that’s a bit too tight in the shoulders. Ronan still isn’t looking when Adam sits gently on the edge of the bed, his right hand resting scant inches away from one of Ronan’s. Ronan’s pinky finger twitches toward Adam’s, and there’s a fraction of a second where Adam entertains the idea of twining his fingers with Ronan’s before Ronan sits up abruptly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“Need to shower, too,” Ronan explains, ambling toward the open bathroom door. It’s laughable, almost, how much Ronan does _not_ need to shower; there isn’t a smudge of dirt anywhere on his person, and he smells like his own soap, indicating that he probably showered directly before showing up here. He does stuff like this — uses Adam’s hot water and body wash, drinks a cup of Adam’s green tea and complains about the taste the entire time, brushes his teeth with Adam’s toothpaste, steals a piece of Adam’s toast in the mornings — so that he can get away with doing things for Adam every now and again. So he can toss a loaf of Wonderbread on the counter and say, _I’m gonna eat most of it, anyway._ So he can leave a box of bandaids in the medicine cabinet and say, _Because I get splinters from your shitty floor every god damn night._ He takes things without asking, so he can give things without arguing. And, for the most part, Adam lets him.

Because there’s a difference between Gansey trying to bat Adam’s hands away from the check at Nino’s and Ronan insisting on paying the fifty-cents at the laundromat because _I’m the one who spilled an energy drink on the sheets, dickhead._ It’s a difficult difference to verbalize, but it’s there. Maybe it’s because it’s impossible to feel _pitied_ by Ronan, especially when he hardens his features into something positively mutinous. Maybe it’s because Ronan doesn’t make a big deal out of any of it, doesn’t sit in his car and remind Adam that he _paid your hospital bill_ , like that’s something that Adam wants to think about —

Okay, Adam’s internal monologue is straying too far into unresolved Gansey issues. Back to the matter at hand: Ronan.

Ronan, who has the water so hot that steam is seeping out through the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door. Ronan, who is singing the Murder Squash song at the top of his lungs with the sole intention of annoying Adam.

Ronan, who is the person that Adam trusts the most in the world, and also the person that Adam is most afraid of (other than himself).

“Squash one, squash two,” Ronan belts for what seems like the thousandth time. Adam wants to be more annoyed than he is, but he lacks both the energy and the conviction. Instead, he just feels a little trapped. A little helpless. Because here’s Ronan in Adam’s apartment, Ronan in Adam’s head, Ronan singing and Ronan reading and Ronan blaspheming. Ronan Lynch and his love languages of _sleeping on your floor, swearing at you, pulling gifts out of my dreamscape for you, driving you around in my dead dad’s car,_ and _causing you minor physical pain in the name of fun._ Everywhere Adam turns, there’s Ronan, and it’s wonderful and flattering and absolutely terrifying.

The water shuts off in the bathroom, and Ronan continues to hum as he brushes his teeth. Adam lays on his stomach atop the covers and presses his face into his pillow, trying and failing to ignore the fact that it smells like Ronan. God, there’s no escaping him, no corner of the Earth where Adam will be able to stop thinking about him for even a nanosecond. Not even his own bed is safe. He rolls onto his back and blinks lazily at the low ceiling.

The bathroom door opens again, and the heat from the shower rolls across the small apartment, warming it slightly. It’s autumn now, early enough in the season to be warm more often than not, but the nights are starting to get a bit chillier and Adam’s radiator is on the fritz, so he refuses to turn it on till it’s absolutely necessary. Ronan probably knows this, judging by the way he pushes the bathroom door open as wide as it’ll go and actually stands to the side as the balmy air spreads across the apartment.

“You good there, Parrish?” Ronan asks quietly after a minute, out of Adam’s periphery as he redresses. Adam can hear one of his dresser drawers slide open as Ronan unaskingly borrows some pajamas, presumably so that he can wash them and bring them back later. He’s a sneaky fucker like that.

Adam hums softly, a nonanswer for the king of nonanswers of himself. His eyes go unfocused and he lets them, because it’s safer than risking a glance at Ronan and finding Ronan looking back. That happens a lot now, enough for Adam to have parsed out and taken apart every aspect of Ronan’s gaze until he could probably accurately guess Ronan’s exact eyeglasses prescription (he’s seen Ronan wear glasses exactly once, which is more than enough to haunt Adam — not unpleasantly — for life). 

He’s figured out what it means by now. He’d have to be stupid to not understand, and Adam is a lot of things, but he could never, ever be described as _stupid_. He knows that Ronan likes him. Has known since he figured out the rent thing. And he knows, distantly, that he likes Ronan as well. How could he not? He’s seen Ronan with a baby raven cupped in his hands, Ronan ruffling his little brother’s hair, Ronan crying over his best friend’s body, Ronan throwing himself between Adam and his father. He’s heard from Blue about Ronan holding her in the cave and giving her the light. He’s heard from Gansey about Ronan tracing the word _REMEMBERED_ in the dust on Noah’s car window.

He’d have to be stupid to not like Ronan, and Adam is a lot of things, but he could never, ever, _ever_ be described as _stupid_.

But Adam would also have to be stupid to fall in love with Ronan, and that’s the problem. It’s a knife’s edge he walks here, straddling the line between like and love. Realistically, he’s probably already come down on one side; Adam Parrish does nothing halfway, after all. But Adam Parrish is also a master of repression and deception, so he continues to tell himself this: he would be a fool to fall in love with Ronan Lynch, so he won’t. Won’t subject himself — and certainly won’t subject _Ronan_ — to the heartache and misery of a relationship with an expiration date. Because Adam, well, Adam could do long distance if it came down to it, but Ronan — Ronan loves fully or not at all. This much is known. Ronan is untamed and feral and it would be a crime — no, a sin — to domesticate him. 

This much is known.

“You’re going braindead on me, dude,” Ronan says, furrowing his brows at Adam in a way that says _I’m worried about you but I’m going to pretend to be vaguely annoyed instead_. He crouches down and folds his leather jacket into a small, pillow-like bundle. “I think the gasoline fumes are finally getting to you.” Pauses, then adds, “Or the perpetual overworking.”

Annoyance turns Adam’s blood hot for a second, then dissipates. He’s too damn tired to fight about the same thing that he always fights about with Ronan. “Fuck you,” he says succinctly, exhaling deeply. He melts into his shitty mattress a bit. “What do you know about overworking, you trust fund baby?”

Ronan lifts a hand into Adam’s line of sight and flips him off. “I’ve absorbed some of your tiredness. Osmosis, or whatever.”

“That’s not a thing that happens.”

“Sure it is,” Ronan says, tugging on one of the blankets beneath Adam till it’s free. “Osmosis happens when molecules—”

“Shut up,” Adam interrupts, shaking his head. “God, you’re the worst.”

“What?” Ronan asks innocently, standing up to turn off the lamp by the door. The room immediately falls into comforting darkness, broken up only by the rectangular patch of silvery light where the moon shines through the apartment’s single window. It coincidentally falls right where Ronan’s left hand rests, palm up, fingers bent slightly. Adam, turned on his side now, looks and then looks away. Looks and looks away. “I took biology, too, you know.”

Adam rolls his eyes. “Showing up to class once a month does not constitute _taking a class_ , for the record,” he says, but most of the fight is drained from him. He’s so tired. Not just tired. Not even just exhausted. He’s worn the fuck out. He’s, like, bankrupt when it comes to energy. All of the motivation and the skill in the world can’t give him more time in a day, or more energy to actually accomplish what needs accomplishing. It’s frustrating, how few of his circumstances are actually within his control, even now, living in his own apartment and driving his own car and choosing his own path. It’s infuriating. He’d scream, except that would take more energy, and he has nothing left to give.

Ronan’s hand twitches like he knows that Adam’s looking. He probably does; if Adam can make out the silhouette of Ronan in the dark, his strong brow and his aquiline nose and the sharp jut of his jaw, then surely Ronan can get a decent idea of how Adam looks and which direction he’s facing. He doesn’t say anything, just slides his hand almost imperceptibly nearer to the spot where Adam’s own hand hangs off the mattress.

“Do you work tomorrow?” Ronan asks after a few minutes of silence. His voice is low, not necessarily soft but certainly not as harsh as it could be.

The answer is one hundred percent _yes_ , Adam being Adam and all, but he thinks on it anyway. It’s Friday now. Well, technically it’s Saturday, being nearly three in the morning, but. For all intents and purposes, it’s still Friday night. Tomorrow is Saturday. Saturday means no school. No school means an array of hours all eaten up by cars in need of repairs and essays in need of writing and Welsh kings in need of finding and leylines in need of magicians. Even when he’s not on the clock, he’s working, whether that be getting ahead on schoolwork for the week or rearranging rocks for optimal magical current flow. 

“I have to do some stuff for Cabeswater,” he says with a sigh. “Just, like, regular magician stuff. It can wait till the afternoon.” He doesn’t mention that he has to wake up early to work on his French reading (the one downside to chasing Greenmantle out of town, fuck does Adam hate the French fucking language) and redo half his calculus problem set and edit the rough draft of his ridiculous _Slaughterhouse Five_ essay. If Ronan’s still here in the morning, he’ll see that for himself.

Ronan grunts in acknowledgment, his hand inching ever closer to Adam’s. “I’ll come with,” he mumbles, and even in the dark Adam knows he’s chewing on his leather bands. “We can take the beemer.”

If Adam wasn’t so tired, he might argue. If the Hondayota wasn’t acting up even worse than usual, he might argue. If it wasn’t Ronan, he would most certainly argue.

As it is, all he says is, “‘Kay.”

Ronan’s hand is so close to his that simply flexing his fingers would result in their knuckles brushing. The idea of it, however chaste and innocent the touch would be, is dangerous and illicit here in the dark, in the middle of the night. Adam almost does it, just to see how it would feel, just to find out how Ronan would react, but composes himself at the last second. There would be no coming back from touching Ronan’s hand for either of them, and he won’t do that to Ronan. Not when he’s leaving. Not when Ronan won’t ask him for anything.

And oh, that’s it. That’s the difference between Gansey’s charity and Ronan’s gifts. Gansey _asks_ for something. He asks for Adam’s time, for his effort, for his brain. And that’s okay, that’s friendship, you give and you take and that’s that. But Ronan — he snaps and he commands and he shoves his way into places where he shouldn’t fit, but he never, ever asks. Not for anything. Not because he doesn’t want anything — Ronan is not exactly low-key, he’s obvious in the fact that he wants _everything_ — but because he knows how little Adam currently has to give. He knows that it would be unfair to ask, so he doesn’t. He accepts what Adam can give him, and he doesn’t push it any further.

And just like that, Adam knows that there’s only one thing he wants Ronan to ask for, only one thing worth giving anyway.

“Goodnight, Lynch,” Adam murmurs, half into his pillow. His hand still rests beside Ronan’s, tantalizingly close. He can feel the warmth radiating off Ronan’s skin, and he lets himself enjoy it, at least for a moment.

Ronan sounds half-asleep when he replies, “Goodnight, Parrish.”

Ronan knows who Adam is. He knows what Adam wants. And if he decides that he can live with that, if he thinks it’s worth it, then okay. That’s that. He has all the facts; let him come to the decision by himself. If he can do it, if he wants Adam that badly, then he can take the first step. And if he does, if he asks Adam to fall in love with him, Adam will say yes.

Until then, Adam lets himself sleep. When his alarm goes off the next morning, Ronan is still curled up on the floor, eyelids fluttering while he dreams, and for the first time in actual years, Adam wakes up feeling less tired than he was when he went to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it!! it had been too long since my last st. agnes sleepover fic, i missed it!! as always, you're welcome to come chat on tumblr, i'm @sleepsongs and i'm a certified adam parrish lovebot :) p.s. title comes from steamroller by phoebe bridgers ♡


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